ACT V.

1. Scene I. The King's Camp near Shrewsbury.

KING.
How bloodily the Sun begins to peer
Above yon busky hill! the day looks pale
At his distemperature.

PRINCE.
The southern wind
Doth play the trumpet to his purposes;
And by his hollow whistling in the leaves
Foretells a tempest and a blustering day.

KING.
Then with the losers let it sympathize,
For nothing can seem foul to those that win.--

[The trumpet sounds. Enter Worcester and Vernon.]

How, now, my Lord of Worcester! 'tis not well
That you and I should meet upon such terms
As now we meet. You have deceived our trust;
And made us doff our easy robes of peace,
To crush our old limbs in ungentle steel:
This is not well, my lord, this is not well.
What say you to't? will you again unknit
This churlish knot of all-abhorred war,
And move in that obedient orb again
Where you did give a fair and natural light;
And be no more an exhaled meteor,
A prodigy of fear, and a portent
Of broached mischief to the unborn times?

WOR.
Hear me, my liege:
For mine own part, I could be well content
To entertain the lag-end of my life
With quiet hours; for I do protest,
I have not sought the day of this dislike.